Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Foster doesn’t smile, his entire bearing far too serious and intent. “My pleasure.” And why is his voice so husky?
It’s so awkward standing here like this, so very close that I can feel his body heat, with our eyes locked in a standstill, and yet, it’s also exhilarating. I can’t deny my attraction to this man and if I’m reading the vibes right, he’s feeling the same way.
Disappointment slams into me when he releases one of my wrists, only to have my pulse jackhammer when he raises that hand to tuck an errant lock of hair behind my ear.
Such a tender, intimate gesture.
Maybe it’s just a friendly move—Leo does that to me all the time, especially when we’re talking about serious stuff or I’m feeling emotional.
I’m just about to accept that everything about these last few minutes with Foster is nothing but the actions of a concerned employer, also noting that I again feel slightly defeated because I swear I felt something magical between us.
Then his head dips, his face coming closer to mine and his eyes drop to my mouth.
I let out a quavering sigh of relief that he’s actually going to kiss me which is… wrong.
Oh my God. So very wrong.
I scramble back, duck around him and then whirl to face the man who seems to have a magical pull that makes me lose my ever-loving mind.
Foster slowly turns to face me, his expression inscrutable.
“We can’t do that,” I stammer.
“Do what?” His tone is lazy, slightly amused.
“Kiss,” I snap. “You were getting ready to kiss me.”
“And you were ready to let me kiss you,” he points out.
“But I came to my senses and stopped it,” I retort. “Because this is wrong.”
“Why?”
Why? Is he kidding? How can he even ask why this is wrong?
I cross my arms over my chest and lift my chin. “You’re my employer.”
Foster shrugs and grunts from the pain of lifting his shoulder. “Didn’t stop Brienne and Drake. If ever there was a more forbidden employer/employee relationship, that worked out just fine.”
“And that’s what you want… a relationship?” I ask, astounded how cavalier he’s being.
“I just wanted a kiss and figured I’d see where it went from there,” he replies with a mischievous grin.
My arms drop and I hold them out, shaking my head in confusion. “But… why? I mean, what is prompting all this?”
Foster chuckles and shakes his head in amusement whereas I’m befuddled as fuck. “Seriously, Mazzy. Have you even looked at yourself?”
For some odd reason, my head turns toward the bathroom mirror as if I’ll see the answer. It’s just… me.
“I’m not just talking about your physical beauty,” Foster says, and my gaze moves back to him in the mirror’s reflection. He stands there half-naked and sexy as hell, and it’s so disconcerting, I barely hear his next words. “I’m talking about the package. You’re smart, funny, trustworthy, genuine, and you have had such a positive impact on my daughter—”
“That’s why it’s wrong,” I blurt out, and Foster blinks in surprise. “We can’t do anything or… whatever because of Bowie Jane. It would be too confusing.”
And that penetrates. Foster’s lips flatten as he processes what I’ve said, and just like that, the magical spell is broken. “Bowie Jane,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to the vanity for a moment before coming back up to meet mine through the mirror. “Yeah… you’re right. We have Bowie Jane to consider.”
CHAPTER 15
Foster
Forty-five minutes still stretch out ahead of me, a slow drip of time before the clash of blades against ice signals the start of the first game of the regular season. I’m in the heart of the locker room, echoes of anticipation hanging thick in the air as my teammates get dressed. My own pregame ritual begins. The base layer goes on first, followed by a second, breathable armor, contouring tightly against my muscles. I secure my shin guards, each click of the straps a familiar sound of comfort, and then pull on my socks.
I work my way into my hockey pants, the durable fabric embracing foam padding that provides further protection. I draw the traditional laces tight and throw in a double knot before cinching the adjustable buckle. I don’t bother with my shoulder or elbow pads yet as it will be easier to get my skates on without them.
Lowering myself onto the wooden bench in front of my cubby, my blades await their call to action. I pull them on, laces weaving through my fingers with practiced ease. It’s a monotonous movement and each piece of gear is more than just protection. They represent fragments of my identity as a hockey player and once that jersey of white, purple and gray goes on, I will be transformed into a warrior ready to step onto a frozen battleground.
Usually at this point, my mind is thoroughly immersed in the game to come. I’m thinking of strategies and envisioning plays I’ve worked on all week with my line mates. Our second line is cobbled together—a mixture of old and new. My defensemen remain the same, Camden and Hendrix, and we have a season and a half under our belts. That’s countless hours on the ice together, learning each other’s moves and how to anticipate a pass just from the twitch of a shoulder.